


Relentless

by aelur



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - Russian 20th c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelur/pseuds/aelur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1924. Vladimir shares a chat with Joseph in Gorki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relentless

"You're acting different," he heard Joseph said.  
"I am an old, tired man," he replied. His eyes gazed over the garden. He remembered small, blooming wild flowers; fierce red spilled by the red chinese flowers some cocky gardener had planted as a drunken joke. His eyes saw nothing but white that day. Ever-present, tiring white, a pure Russian winter. The snow had taken it all, relentless, he thought, like his comrades who had laid waste to all.  
He felt a light touch on his fingers, a simple caress. He turned his head and saw Joseph's hungry eyes. His tired eyes drank in every single mark on his comrade's face; the poxmarks he so desperately tried to hide, the anxious, demanding black eyes, the slight tremor on his lips as he stopped himself from saying something that'd damn them both. A man of steel made from carbon and great hopes, like anyone else.  
"You have succesfully cut me off from the world," Vladimir said. Any other man would've taken it as an accusation, but they both were beyond that. Lenin was no princess in a crystal tower, and he had no delusions as to who his right hand man really was.  
"It's my time, Vova," Joseph said, moving to sit in front of him. Short man as he was, he had an accute need to tower over everyone, even the sickly Vladimir, so he'd favoured the rail over the chair his friend had brought for him. "This is my calling."  
"As great as your mind can be at times, Iosif, this is not your calling. This is Russia's calling. We are mere tools of the revolution."  
"Agree to disagree then," Joseph murmured under his breath, his eyes firmly fixed on Vladimir. He extended a hand, his bare nuckles grazing the other man's flushed cheeks. The older politician's stare betrayed nothing. "You won't last more than a year, my friend."  
"I know. But as weak as I am, I still am a man of influence. The international-"  
"The international is filled with dreamers and bohemians!" Joseph's eyes flashed, his hand stopping his ministrations. "I've spoken with Kamenev and Zinoviev."  
Vladimir paled. "Trotsky..."  
"He will not stand a chance. I'll make sure of it."  
Vova's face reddened further, and Joseph understood the color on his cheeks was nothing but the man's own pure rage. "I will not stand for this, Iosef! You'll be the ruin of the soviets!"  
The General Secretary cupped Vladimir's face in his hands; a rough, brute gesture born out of annoyance and frustration. He knew himself to be a greedy, ambitious man... but if he'd allowed himself to be such, it was because he knew he was meant to rule the soviets. Who else could do it? Impetuous, rash Trotsky? Cerebral Lenin? He was the best of them all.  
"I could arrange it so that your stay on this earth is shorter than it has to be, Vova."  
"Those are empty threats."  
"Oh, yeah? How so?"  
Vladimir reached for Joseph's face, his rough, calloused hand closing on the back of his neck. The younger man gasped, and allowed himself to be pulled to Lenin's proximity. Forehead against forehead, Joseph felt himself lose his breath as he felt his comrade's own against his lips. "Iosif, your first weakness is your dependency to the desires of the flesh."  
"You-"  
"I did have a fondness for you, dear friend. I hold the memories of our talks about the revolution very dear. You have some notable qualities about you, such as your drive and your incredible wit... but they seem to pale in comparison to the weaknesses you've allowed yourself to harness over the years. I see you now, and I see nothing more than a greedy, ruthless dictator in the making. I am appalled at what I see," Vladimir's steely firm on Joseph's neck didn't waver as he continued. "And I don't deceive myself, even in my affection for the young bolsche I once fought along with, that you have never seen me as nothing more than a step in the ladder to power. You desire me because I am power; I am the Russia you seek to control."  
Stalin's meek left hand closed around the one in his neck, and Vladimir allowed him to put some distance between them. The Soviets' first man's eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that would've scorched a lesser person. But the fire in his eyes was nothing against Lenin's faith in his own beliefs.  
Beady, black eyes half-fixed in a penetrating scowl suddenly relaxed; a deceptive move, one that Lenin was accustomed to - a calm in the storm, the uneasy deceitfulness hidden in the corner of Stalin's smile. Vova felt lips on his own, a simple peck, and the rustle of clothes as Iosif walked away.  
"That should tell you what is to be Russia's future," he said with a chuckle as he left.  
Vladimir knew then he wouldn't live for long.


End file.
